


closure

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Biting, Body Dysphoria, Frottage, Hate Sex, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Incest In Intrusive Thoughts, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mildly Dubious Consent, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Child Abuse, Quadrant Confusion, Rough Sex, Self-Hatred, Self-cest, Suicidal Thoughts, Time Loop, Time Travel, Unrequited, Unrequited Kismesissitude, Unspecified Pairing(s), Violent Thoughts, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-18 14:16:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20313712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: TG:whats that say about our universe that a dying star can pull so much along with itfollow up torecord scratch





	closure

**Author's Note:**

> follow up to [record scratch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20160124)
> 
> more rp feeling bullshit. left it open so you can picture whoever you want as dave's boyfriend. heed the tags.

The world's never ended. No black holes came and swallowed it up, no supernovas destroyed your planet, no alien invasion or zombie apocalypse or weird virus, nothing. There's no oncoming ice age, no sun ready to burst, no ocean rising. The world's never ended, not once, not here, not this planet.

But it feels like it is.

Pitching for someone who doesn't hate you, only loves you, solely and purely, is painful as fuck. It feels like getting your organs ripped out, your favorite CD getting burnt over with new songs, like someone flushing the toilet while you're showering; painful as fuck sometimes, nostalgia inducing others, but mostly just inconvenient and unnecessary.

You're taking a break, and you told him it'd only be a few days, probably, week tops, but you don't actually know, because it's waiting until this suffocation fades. It's waiting until you quit feeling like you're drowning in mid air, and that might be a while, because lungs take a while to heal, right?

But you look yourself in the bathroom mirror, try to see what he sees, and you can't.

You just see where you lack.

You have red eyes, but they're not that bright, kinda fucking ugly, honestly. You have pale skin and fucking dumb freckles that he supposedly likes, but you just look dumb. That's about it, minus the hair you used to bleach. You're nothing special. You're dark-rimmed eyes, shaking hands, and badly painted nails, because there's not much else you can do on your own, like this.

You wish he saw your flaws, your downfalls, something, anything, enough to piss him off and make him flip back and make him see you for a few lousy, measly moments.

You can't have that, though. But you can give yourself something. You can give yourself him-but-not-him, for a few hours, and know, so you can fucking move on already, just get over yourself. You're a grown ass man, Dave, get over it.

(You wish it was easy.)

  


It's your own bed that you push yourself into - your future self is beneath your palms and you just close your eyes and Pretend. (He) slams his mouth against yours, angry, harsh, too much teeth to make up for everything you're not. (His) hands claw down your back, leaving marks, shredding through your shirt, sharp taloned and rough against your skin, and you pray it opens up scars.

(He) doesn't speak - it'd ruin the illusion, you know that - but groans into your mouth, grinding (his) hips up into yours, and it doesn't feel like it should, but the way (his) nails sink into your shoulders to drag you down help, and you savor (his) teeth on your neck, grazing right across your pulse, and (he) could rip you open, tear you apart, but… that'd be too easy, right?

Way too fucking easy.

You can't see, so you feel. You run your fingers down (his) sides. (He's) naked already, so you can feel too soft skin, scarred thighs; (his) hips hitch up and you push yours down to meet them, starting a rhythm that makes you taste bile in your throat, thick and heavy.

You don't know what pitch feels like, but this must be close, because you fucking _hate_ it.

(He) lets out a hiss, and presses a knee between your leg, throwing you off guard just long enough to push out from beneath you and climb atop you, pressing you into the sheets with ease. Your shoulders tense, and you try to ignore that you just want to throw up, want to bury yourself in your boyfriend's chest and…

You wish you were with him and at home and not here, in sheets that smell like him, with a body pressing into yours that isn't his but your own. It's wrong, in the way that driving on the wrong side of the road or the hella incestuous thoughts that plague your brain are wrong: you're wrong, you're not _enough_ for anyone, and you're probably genuinely the shittiest member of your family (worst, because you're manipulative / insecure / too trusting / unneeded / unwanted / too stubborn / variations thereof, things that you get from Dirk from Roxy from Bro; why are they still with you when you're the person who ruins the simplest shit?)

(He) presses chapped lips to your neck, bites down hard, and you grab (his) throat and choke, your fingers digging into (his) own neck with too much force, enough that (he) pulls away with a gasp, clutching at your hand. It's a nice noise, hearing yourself gasp for breath, knowing that's from YOU, and (he) laughs like (he) knows what you're thinking, shifting your hips against yours hard enough to draw a gasp out of you, and (he) fishes your dick out of your pants like it's fucking gold and moves over you, giving you a few strokes to warm you up, before settling down onto you.

It's wrong, and the noise you / (he) makes is carnal and animalistic and raw, and (he) shoves your hands onto your chest - no, shoves (his) hands onto your chest, clutching at you like an astronaut searching for oxygenation. You hate it, hate (him), hate _you_, the way (he) feels around your dick - it's wrong and fucking disgusting and you're straining beneath (him) so you can try to wiggle free but (he) bears down on you and he's sobbing, you're sobbing, one of you's sobbing and it sounds like choking more than crying.

You can't breathe, so maybe you're the one choking.

He - (he) is moving up and down and bouncing on your dick like he fucking owns it, and he's crying, and you hate it, but it feels right, maybe, not actually. His hips swivel down against yours and you dig your hands into his ass and he lets out a yelp, his dick pressing against your stomach - you can feel it leaking and it's too much, you want to rip it off, rip him apart, rip yourself apart.

You make the mistake of opening your eyes, and you see yourself. You see bites on his shoulders, your shoulders, hickeys on his collarbone that you haven't gotten yet (the paradoxical implications of that would make you laugh, but you just want to scream), his eyes squeezed shut and the horrific look on his face, pain and fear and anger all mixed up with a nice pretty bow, topped with some glitter and a cherry or two. It's hideous and fucking gorgeous, and you want to rip that look off your face, so you grab his face and pull yourself down, faces colliding, and it's wrong. You can feel him clench around you, give a choked sob into your mouth, and he's sort of clutching at the fucked up remains of your shirt now, holding on for dear life. You wonder, if he opened his eyes, what he'd see, if he didn't see (him) in your place.

You wish it was who it isn't.

You wish you were fucking dead.

But that's light years away, or something like that.

Maybe he sees someone even different, if he opens them when you close yours tight.

When you come, it's a surprise, lightning hot and way too fast, like your body can't make you hold on anymore, and it's a familiar name on your tongue, sobbed out into a mouth that's not his, not your boyfriend's, not… not the one you want.

You've had knives on your skin before and this feels worse - _those_ were self inflicted ((or from Bro; is it wrong that sometimes you wish he'd fucked you instead of strifed, at least you'd have a reason for your shitty intrusive thoughts about just that?)), but this isn't, this aches deep to your bones, shoved in there like metal wiring wrapping through the marrow. Your stomach swirls with the need to get out from beneath these legs, these hands, but your own mouth is practically welded to yours, his hands on your shoulders as he rides you even though it hurts. It fucking stings, you're too sensitive, you want him to stop already, but he doesn't, so you grab his cock and twist your wrist a little, the way you like it; he makes a noise akin to a screech into your mouth and your dick does the unfortunate little twitch that means your body's going, 'Yes! More! Touch!'

At least he's touching you, right? Even if you don't deserve it at all - but they're your own hands, they're just as dirty as the rest of you, maybe this is as close to what you do deserve as the universe will ever let you get.

His mouth leaves yours, presses into your shoulder, leaving marks and bruises and nips from there to your collarbones, and the feeling isn't unwelcome but it's not quite 'come over whenever' territory either - (his) mouth leaves yours, leaving marks and bruises and nips from there to your collarbones, and it's (him) so of course you lovehate it.

And he, (he), you, comes with (his) name pressing into your throat. When he collapses at your side, it's heavy, and not gentle, no hair pushed from your face, no water bottle offered, no shower shared.

You want a drink, something strong.

You want someone else here.

_That _isn't happening.

  


In the end, when you've played through it again - pressed against the sheets, your nails on (his) back, then pushing (him) onto the bed and riding (him) and picturing how (he) always looks, how he gets that dumb little smile on his face when he's inside you, the way his hands are gentle even when he's rough. You come to _that_, and spiral back down to Earth, and you just feel tired, not satisfied, just sore and scratched up and exhausted.

It _aches_, right to your heart, deep inside you, when it hits you that this probably isn't what pitch feels like. He wouldn't do this how you did, it'd be different, but that's okay.

But that's okay, because this is enough.

He's _not_ your kismesis. He's _not_ your pitch. His feelings for you are flush and red only; not daring past that, and that's okay.

You can't force him to feel the same.

But you can let him go, and move on, and be happy with what you have.

Closure's a bitch, but at least you get some semblance of knowing that you'll never do pitch right.

  


You're broken, simple as that, a fucked up human who got to feel something he shouldn't have, even for a moment.


End file.
